“I’m very pleased with Lafitte’s Landing. I believe we’ve just secured the location for the engagement party. I’ll send my… Courtney a message.”
She glanced at him again and saw he was reviewing the digital pictures he’d taken of the location on the screen of his PDA. Whenever he spoke of Courtney, he tripped over her name. He never personalized the relationship—and if he ever did say “my,” he always stopped himself as if not wanting to commit to saying “my fiancée.”
Silence descended on them as she navigated lunch-hour traffic in midtown. Without thinking, she powered on the stereo.
Beside her, George started visibly when Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore” blasted through the speakers. Embarrassed, she fumbled with the buttons and turned it off again.
“No, don’t turn it off.” George reached over and turned it on again but adjusted the volume lower. “Not many people listen to Dean Martin these days.”
Her cheeks burned. Yet another example of how backward she was—she didn’t even listen to contemporary music.
“They just don’t make music like this anymore. It’s a shame, really.”
Was he serious or patronizing her? He’d leaned his head back against the headrest, and he looked fully relaxed. The CD moved to the next track, and he started to hum, then sing along with “Memories Are Made of This.” Same taste in music to add to the ever-growing list of his attractions. He probably liked old movies, too.
Twenty minutes later, after being treated to George’s perfect imitation of Dean Martin through several of her favorite songs, she slowed and passed an old-fashioned general store and gas station. “This is the town of Comeaux.”
George craned his neck to take in the sights. “How far outside of Bonneterre have we come?”
“We’re only about twenty miles from Town Square—about ten miles from the city limits. I know it feels like we’re out in the middle of nowhere.”
“How beautiful.”
Anne glanced past George at the enormous, gingerbread Victorian house. “That’s the Plantation Inn Bed and Breakfast. Some of my clients who can’t afford big expensive trips for their honeymoons come down here. I’ve stayed here a couple of times, too, when I just needed to get away.”
A few blocks down, she pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of a building sided with rough wood planks that featured fishing gear hanging from rusted iron nails as decorations.
The interior of the Fishin’ Shack was dim and cool compared to the sultry sunshine of a June day in Louisiana. The aroma of sweet seafood and spicy Cajun seasonings hit her full force as she entered. Her stomach growled loudly.
“Anne, what are you doing here?” Jenn stepped away from a table and met her at the door.
Anne hugged her cousin. “I’m in the area looking at venues and had to stop somewhere for lunch.” She stepped out of her cousin’s embrace before the younger woman spilled the iced-tea pitcher she held.
Jenn looked behind Anne, and her eyes widened when she saw George.
“Jennifer Guidry, this is George Laurence, my client.” Anne stepped back to include George. “Jenn is the owner of this place.”
“My pleasure, Miss Guidry.” He paused, her hand still clasped in his. “Guidry… let me guess—another one of Anne’s cousins.”
“Yep, and proud of it.” Jenn led them to a table away from the moderate-sized lunch crowd and placed the large laminated menus on the table as Anne slid into the booth. Jenn turned to George. “Since you’ve never been here, I’ll let you know that our Cajun dishes are very spicy, but we can tone that down if you like. If you don’t see anything on the menu that you like, just let me know, and I’ll talk to the chef.” She winked at him.
Anne held in her laugh as her cousin turned on all of her Southern charm for the handsome Englishman. When Jenn returned with their beverages, George ordered the traditional fish ’n’ chips basket, while Anne ordered her favorite Cajun grilled shrimp Caesar salad.
As they waited for their meals, she struggled to think of a neutral topic of conversation but was saved from having to come up with appropriate small talk when George remarked, “Hawthorne isn’t a name one would typically associate with Louisiana.”
He wasn’t the first person who’d pointed that out to her. “No. My father was from Boston but came here for college, where he met my mother.” She’d explained this so many times over the years it was hard to keep it from sounding rehearsed.
“I’ve been to Boston. It’s a very interesting city.”
“So I’ve heard.” Anne traced the ring of moisture her glass of tea left on the table as she took a sip.
“You’ve never gone there yourself? Not even to visit family?”
“I… don’t fly.” Anne swallowed hard and raised her left hand to make sure her shirt collar covered the twenty-seven-year-old scar on the side of her neck.
“Why ever not?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he held up his hand in front of him. “No, wait. I apologize. That question is presumptuous. Please do not feel you have to answer it.”
“It’s all right.” She took a fortifying breath. “You see, when I was eight—”
“Here’s your lunch!” Jenn called cheerily as she swooped down upon them. She gave Anne a wink and floated away to visit with other patrons.
“You were about to tell me why you don’t fly,” he reminded her. Anne lifted her napkin to dab the corners of her mouth and cleared her throat. “The only time I was ever on a plane was with my parents when I was eight. It was a commuter plane that held thirty people. The pilot tried to take off in the middle of a thunderstorm, but…” She took a deep breath to calm her voice and try to settle her stomach. “We crashed, and I was one of only five people who survived.”
Silence settled over the table. He swallowed a couple of times. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be. It was a very long time ago. I tried to get on a plane when I was fifteen and had such a bad panic attack that they had to take me to the emergency room.” She hadn’t meant to reveal that to him. No one outside of her family—except for the airline and emergency room staff who’d helped—knew about it.
He nodded slowly, taking a moment to push a morsel of fish onto the back of his fork with his knife. Before putting the bite in his mouth, he asked, “Where would you have gone had you gotten on that plane?”
“New York with my grandparents and aunt and uncle.” She pushed her half-finished salad toward the end of the table to let Jenn or the other servers milling around know they could take it away. She’d felt half-starved when they sat down, yet talking about her aversion to flying spoiled her appetite.
“And have you never tried to board a plane since then?”
Why had he decided to take such an interest in this topic? She leaned back against the padded booth seat and crossed her arms. “No. I’d love to see Europe, but I don’t want to go through another panic attack.”
“Hmm.” It was a short sound from the back of his throat. “Have you ever considered taking a ship over?”
He was as tenacious as a coonhound that had treed its prey. Why wouldn’t he just let it drop? “I’ve looked into it, but being self-employed, I can’t be gone for that long. How often do you go back to England?” Hopefully he’d take the hint and let her change the subject.
“I’ve traveled to England several times in the past few years in the capacity of my job.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then laid it beside his plate. “Do you mind if I ask, how did you come to the decision to pursue a career as a wedding planner?”
Not really the topic she wanted to discuss, but much better than talking about planes and flying. “When I left graduate school, I went to work as the event planner for B-G—yes, the job Meredith has now. After several years, I realized I enjoyed planning weddings the most and felt like God was leading me to start my own business.”